Chapter Text
Day 1
Hermione stared out the window of the battered Jeep that sped her along the motorway, eyes flicking over the ordinary scenes of everyday Muggle life. Just there, a family filled up at a petrol station. Over there was a neighborhood nestled into a valley, strings of identical houses whipping by in a blink. If she unfocused her eyes, everything blurred into smudges of normalcy. How nice. How strange.
The Order had been using cars to travel long distances for the past six months, given portkeys and apparition were now traceable by Death Eaters. (Brooms, obviously, were out of the question.) It was jarring, moving through the world like this. Like taking a wormhole to some untouched, parallel universe. Achingly normal, when every day for the past four years had been an exercise in survival; doubly so, after the Contamination.
Her hand instinctively went to the breast pocket of her flannel shirt. The two vials were still there.
“You’re doing it again.” Justin Finch-Fletchley gave her a wry smile, though he didn’t take his eyes off the road.
“Yes, well.” She shrugged and grabbed a bag of crisps, tearing it open and nestling back into the passenger seat. “Can’t be too sure.”
“Oi, no eating in my car.” Justin made to grab at her bag, but she held it out of the way, stuffing a large crisp in her mouth, allowing a few crumbs to fall on the upholstery.
“It’s not your car.”
“I drive it all the time, might as well be.”
“The plight of Muggle-borns,” she sighed. “Always the chauffeur.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Somehow you seemed to avoid it.”
“Yes, well I’ve been busy brewing an antidote, remember?”
Justin rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Oh yes, that.”
If Hermione was honest, there were more than a few times in the past six months when she would have killed to have left the lab for a drive. Just her and a lazy, meandering road, sunglasses and radio on as she put distance between herself and her cauldrons and petri dishes. There were so many petri dishes.
Since the Contamination, finding an antidote, unsurprisingly, was Priority Number One for the Order. Equally unsurprisingly, Hermione had been tapped as its lead. For six months, she had been holed up under fluorescent lights, staring at diagnostic spells and microscopes and test tubes for so long, her normally warm-toned skin had gone pale. Her limbs, which had been nicely defined after years of training and fighting on the field (combat had some perks), had all but withered away as she traded her double-wand holster for more academic pursuits.
But none of that mattered, because she had done it. She, Hermione Jean Granger, had fucking done it. And she had two vials in her pocket to prove it.
“Shacklebolt didn’t give you the name for the contact?” Hermione mused out loud, digging around for an extra-salty crisp.
“Nope. Just said we’d meet a double agent who’ll take you where the perimeter is thin enough to portkey to France undetected. And that we’d know ‘im when we see ‘im.”
Hermione hummed in displeasure, licking the salt from her thumb. Justin made another unsuccessful swipe at the bag.
“You’re getting crumbs everywhere.”
“Am not,” she sniffed, knowing full well she was. “Oh, I think the turn is coming up, just here.”
Justin put on the indicator and pulled off the motorway onto a shaded gravel road that seemed to disappear into the trees.
“Right, Shacklebolt said the contact would just be a kilometre or so down this road, right before the lake…” Justin squinted into the shadowy light.
“Look out!” she shrieked.
Greasy crisps spilled into the footwell as Justin deployed the brakes.
A tall, lithe figure wrapped in black athletic wear stood in the middle of the road, the light from a dappled patch of sun glinting off blond hair. Despite the strange mask across his nose and mouth, there was no mistaking who it was.
Shacklebolt had been right about the contact. We’d know ‘im when we see ‘im.
Hermione certainly knew and saw him. But she still couldn’t quite believe it.
Draco Malfoy was going to help her smuggle the antidote to France.
***
They had been walking for over an hour since she had left Justin (who muttered something about crisps as he threw the car in reverse), the air silent between them save for the rhythmic sound of their footsteps trodding over the loamy earth. Which was fine, Hermione supposed. What would they say?
“Oh, nice to see you Malfoy, how have you been? Looks like you’ve had a change of heart? Ah, yes, you’re quite right—my hair hasn’t improved much since we last spoke.”
She stifled a snort. Yes, the quiet was better. Malfoy had hardly said a word besides “Let’s go,” eyes narrowing when he saw her exit the car and grab an overstuffed hiking backpack from the boot. Or, she thought that was what he had said. Hard to hear through the mask.
After another hour of silence, Hermione had changed her mind. The quiet was not better. Perhaps she should ask a question. Or two. Or ten? She had certainly thought of plenty as they had been walking. Her curiosity was a cat in a carrier, scratching at the walls with a manic sort of fervor, looking for more answers than she could count.
He was helping the Order, and she would be stuck with him for Merlin knew how long. They had to speak at some point. Right?
Hermione resolved to ask the important questions first: where they were going, how long it would take, and why he, of all people, was helping the Order.
“Why are you wearing a mask?” she blurted instead. Malfoy’s long strides kept an impatient pace, requiring her to move her feet in an undignified sort of scurry-walk. Hermione almost thought he hadn’t heard her, until his voice floated back, muffled by the accessory in question.
“Precautions.”
“But I’m B-Class.” Hermione scrambled to keep up. Merlin, was he walking even faster now? “Even if you’re A-Class, which—” she paused, quickly studying his appearance. More muscled than he had been in school, certainly taller, definitely stronger. Which was… interesting. Objectively. Not in a weird way. Just in a… way. “Which you seem to be, you won’t experience, erm, symptoms around me. All Muggle-borns are B-Class.”
“A-Class, B-Class,” Malfoy snorted. “You Order members insist on sanitizing the reality of the Contamination, don’t you?”
Hermione felt a flicker of indignation at his dismissive tone, though, honestly—it was Malfoy. She shouldn’t be surprised, even if a small part of her had hoped perhaps he’d try to be more pleasant, what with double-crossing Voldemort, and all. “And what does your side call it, then?”
He shrugged. “Alpha. Beta. Omega. You’re an intelligent witch.” She started. He thought she was intelligent? Something in her preened. (How confusing. Why did she care? She didn't.) “Surely you’ve figured out by now that the traits presented by those affected mimic—”
“Werewolf hierarchies and mating behaviors, of course.” Hermione rolled her eyes. She’d figured that out within the first few days. “But we’re not—I mean we don’t have the same—” she grappled for the right words. “We’re not… werewolves.”
“Well spotted,” he drawled.
Hermione flushed, a sudden—yet familiar—wave of embarrassment washing over her. She had forgotten this feeling—how Malfoy could throw her off balance with a simple sneer or cutting glance. He had been horrible to her in school; that was irrefutable. But there had been times when… how could she even describe it? It was their eyes snagging in class, the bottomless grey holding hers. It was their robes grazing in the hall. Moments that lingered, and made her feel this exact way. Too warm, too disoriented, too aware. Unnerved.
She was unnerved. He was unnerving.
“Anyway,” she pressed on, “I’m B-Class—”
“Beta.”
“So you don’t need a mask. I’m neutral. My pheromones shouldn’t… interfere.”
“Why do you care if I wear a mask or not?”
Hermione faltered at the sharp edge in his voice. “I mean—well… I don’t.”
She readjusted the strap on her hiking pack, stumbling a bit as she did. It was just so heavy, and her body was unused to this after months in the lab; the exertion of muscles and panting breaths and fresh air.
A warm hand wrapped around her elbow, firm and steady. Malfoy had caught her, even though he had been a metre or so ahead. How had he moved so quickly? She blinked. Must be that A-Class strength and speed. She could only see his eyes, but there was a cold displeasure in the way his brows knit together.
“You look awful.”
Hermione scoffed loudly, yanking her arm back from his grip, skin burning from where his fingers had dug in. “Well, why don’t you try spending six months in a lab trying to find a solution to this mess, and tell me if you look any better,” she spat.
His eyes flared, anger burning the grey into a bright silver. “You won’t make it where we’re going if you can’t walk more than ten paces without falling over yourself.”
“And just where are we going?” she demanded, crossing her arms and drawing herself up to her full, diminutive height.
“Scafell Pike.”
Her mouth popped open. “Are you serious?”
“The altitude makes it the only place where the perimeter doesn’t reach.” Malfoy turned and resumed his breakneck pace down the trail. “Portkey from the summit, or swim to France.”
Dread pooled in her stomach as she stood rooted to the spot, watching him stride further and further away. The mountain had to be another day’s journey by foot, and that was excluding the steep ascent once they got there.
“Granger.” Malfoy’s voice rang out over the stillness of the forest. “Keep up.”
This would be fine. It was just… an extended backpacking trip with her school bully-turned-enemy-turned-double-agent, so she could meet the Order’s contacts in France to mass-produce and distribute an antidote as soon as possible, lest they lose the war. Surely, she had faced worse odds?
She squared her shoulders, then hurried down the path after him.
***
They had left the tree cover sometime in the mid-afternoon, moving swiftly over the hilly terrain until daylight began to relinquish its hold on the sky. Malfoy finally signaled them to stop in a small valley. Hermione sighed in relief, dropping her pack and stretching her arms over her head.
“Thank Merlin,” she groaned, rolling out the sore muscles in her neck. When she was met with nothing but silence, she looked up.
Malfoy stood glowering at her, arms crossed. Or at least—his eyes seemed to suggest he was glowering. Hard to be sure, given half his face continued to be obscured by the mask. One hand repeatedly clenched into a fist, then flexed, splaying long fingers out wide before clenching again. Open, close. Open, close.
“What?” Hermione snapped, growing tired of his quiet appraisal.
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m just surprised the Order sent… you.”
She curled her lip, shoulders tensing. He really hadn’t changed. Why had she thought he might? Of course he didn’t want it to be her. “Mad you got stuck with the Mudblood?”
A flash of surprise temporarily loosened his brow, before it drew together again with a renewed fervor. “No,” he said roughly, shaking his head. “I don’t believe that shite anymore.”
“Please, don’t lie just for the sake of my feelings,” Hermione spat. “Not like it’s ever stopped you before.”
“That’s not it.”
“Fine. Then what is?”
“I’m just surprised they sent… a witch.” Malfoy shifted slightly, eyes darting to the side. Something about the admission had made him strangely uncomfortable, and Hermione had the niggling feeling that there was something she was missing. It was one of her least favorite feelings.
“Why would that matter?”
He ran a hand through his hair. The ends had begun to curl a bit from the warmth and (she assumed) sweat. He met her gaze once more. “For someone who supposedly came up with the antidote, it seems there’s still a lot you don’t know about the Contamination.”
“I know plenty about it, and I did come up with the antidote,” she retorted. “It’s been tested and validated. Ron was A-Class, and now he’s back to normal. Once the French help us replicate and distribute more doses, the Order can finally stop getting distracted by the urge to fuck each other constantly, and actually focus on winning the war.”
A sharp bark of laughter sounded from behind Malfoy’s mask. “You think that’s the only reason why the Dark Lord released the contaminant? So that the Order would be distracted and lose the war from fucking too much?”
Her confidence faltered, tripped and fell—splat—to the ground. “Isn’t it?”
“I’ll admit, tactically, it’s served the Death Eaters well,” Malfoy said with a derisive snort. “But that’s not its main purpose.” His eyes bored into hers. “Use that swotty little brain of yours. It’s mainly Purebloods who are Alphas or Omegas. Why would the Dark Lord want them to be fucking all the time?”
It only took a second to click. Hermione’s spine stiffened at the implication. Only Purebloods.
Pureblood Alphas, strong and dominant, drawn to submissive Pureblood Omegas. Purebloods fucking uncontrollably. Purebloods begetting Purebloods. A new, magical, postwar generation of Purebloods. Muggle-borns like her, intentionally left out of a new social and hierarchical system.
“But then why—there are some Half-Bloods—”
“Blood status is a factor in determining Alpha, Beta or Omega status,” Malfoy explained. “But it’s not the only one. A strong magical signature can also affect whether someone is an Alpha or Omega. Thus, Half-Bloods.” He paused, letting his gaze drag slowly down her body, then back up. It left a strange twinge in her stomach. “I personally haven’t seen it, but it’s not impossible that a particularly strong magical signature on a Muggle-born may cause them to present as Alpha or Omega as well.”
Of course. Of course. How had she not seen it before? The signs had all been there, but she had been too focused on finding the antidote to think past what was generally known and agreed upon to be true. Stupid, in hindsight. The information may have helped her find a cure sooner.
Hermione frowned, leaning to open her pack and pull out her tent, just to give her hands something to do as she processed Malfoy’s explanation. She always thought better like this. Bright polyester fabric and metal stakes were spilled unceremoniously onto the dirt.
“So when you say you’re surprised they sent a witch—” Hermione stabbed the stakes into the ground with a little too much vigor “—it’s because if you’re A-Class, any witch could potentially be in a… compromising position, unless she was a known Alpha.”
“Yes.”
“I see. Thus the mask.”
“Thus the mask.”
Hermione hummed thoughtfully. “And Death Eaters wear the mask to block pheromones that might trigger… urges? I notice your side isn’t fucking uncontrollably.”
“That’s right.” Even though Hermione couldn’t see his face, she could tell Malfoy was smirking. “Controlled fucking only. And stop saying it’s my side. I wouldn’t be here if it was.”
Hermione threaded the tent poles through the slippery fabric, frowning at both the difficulty of the task (why did the poles always get stuck to every little crease?) and his claim.
“Yes, why are you here?” she sniffed. “Cold feet? Playing sycophant to a deranged madman isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”
“It’s my ticket out, yes. And I have… unfinished business.”
Hermione arched her brow, shooting him a glance that she knew gave away her interest in his vague, ‘unfinished business’.
“How mysterious. Care to share?”
“Not particularly.”
Hermione scoffed as she struggled to pop the tent poles through the stakes. Slowly but surely, the offensively orange tent sprang to life. Malfoy surveyed her, unimpressed.
“A Muggle tent?”
“Yes.” Hermione glared at him as she stood back to survey her work. “Is there a problem?”
“It looks… small.”
“Roomy enough for me. Didn’t you bring your own?”
His silence told her that, in fact, he hadn’t. A sudden heat had her skin prickling in discomfort.
“Why wouldn’t you bring your own?” she demanded hotly, crossing her arms over her chest.
Malfoy dragged a hand through his hair again, the corners of his eyes crinkled in what she imagined must have been a scowl. “My contact with the Order said all I had to bring was the portkey. I thought at least you’d have a wizarding tent.”
“Oh. I see.”
They both looked at the flimsy tangerine structure, which was beginning to lean at an angle that Hermione wasn’t sure boded well for her.
“Well,” she started, swallowing down the distaste in her mouth for what she was about to say. It would be rude, wouldn’t it? Not to offer? “I suppose—”
“I’ll sleep outside.” Malfoy grunted, stomping over to a flat spot across the campsite.
“Yes, good,” she agreed quickly. “I’ll cast some basic wards. Perhaps you can get a fire going.”
When she came back from creating a rudimentary magical perimeter around camp, Draco was already laying on the ground, facing away with his back to the fire. The mask was still on.
“I have an extra blanket, if—?”
“It’s fine,” Malfoy answered, unmoving.
“Right. Well then, erm, goodnight.”
Hermione stepped into the tent, looking back once as she zipped it shut. Malfoy had rolled to his back and lay with one hand thrown over his eyes, the other tangled in a fistful of hair. Bothered. That’s how he looked; as if he couldn’t believe his shit luck, to be stuck in the wilderness with Hermione Granger.
It was going to be a long walk to Scafell Pike.
Day 2
Her wrists itched. The mosquito bites that Hermione had found that morning on each of her inner wrists (strange, for a mosquito to strike with such uncanny symmetry) hadn’t stopped pestering her for the last few hours, since they had broken down camp and started walking again. In fact, it was getting worse.
Perhaps, Hermione reasoned, it was the sun. It was unseasonably warm for October. Between the warm air and the rigorous hike, her skin was damp with sweat, so naturally, the sweat irritated the bites. That was surely it.
Between all the reasoning and the sweating, Hermione’s keen observational skills were left considerably weakened, which was why she didn’t notice the tree root jutting out of the trail until it was too late.
With a yelp, she stumbled forward, thrown further off-balance by the heavy hiking pack which swung to the side. Many things seemed to happen at once. Her foot slipped off the trail and onto the steep slope they had been skirting. A strong hand clamped around her bicep. Gravity tipped her down, down over the edge of the trail, down past the point of no return. She and Malfoy tumbled together in a tangle of flailing, scrabbling limbs.
She heard a sharp crack as something broke. The sound sent a jolt of fear through her—the antidote. Her hand went instinctively to her breast pocket, clutching the vials firmly as they fell, praying with a panicky fervor that they had not also broken.
Everything ached as they finally rolled to a stop, made doubly so by the heavy weight that was crushing her to the ground. The weight was heavy and warm and smelled… she inhaled. Woodsy yet crisp, like cedar on a winter’s day, and underneath, something muskier and satisfying. Her eyes fluttered closed. There was a low twinge in her stomach, something that twisted and writhed with a sort of giddy anticipation. Something that made her want more—more scent, more weight, more heat—
Malfoy rolled off of her.
“Fuck,” he muttered, standing quickly and ripping the mask from his face. The hard, lacquered black shell that had been obscuring his nose and mouth was cracked down the center, hanging at an angle. He threw it to the ground. “Fuck!”
Hermione started at the fury in his voice, which she could hear fully now—lower than she remembered, strangely pleasant, with a resonance to it that… There was that twinge again. It seemed to curl contentedly through her insides, like a purring cat weaving between her ankles. She frowned. What was that? She shook her head, trying to ignore the odd sensation.
“Don’t you have another?” she asked, rising to prop herself up on her elbows.
“No.” He turned to her, then froze. His stillness afforded her a view of his face—his whole face—for the first time since they had begun this trek.
Malfoy still had the same angular chin and patrician nose, though she was surprised to see a whisper of stubble dusted over his jaw. He looked older, but not in a bad way. More filled in. Grown-up. Handsome?
Stronger, something at the periphery of her mind whispered. The Twinge reasserted itself.
“What?” she asked, sitting fully upright. The vials clinked in her pocket. “Oh God, the antidote!” Hermione hastily pulled them out, turning them over in her hand to examine them. They were, luckily yet improbably, unharmed. She breathed a short sigh of relief.
Malfoy continued to stare at her, blanching as if he had smelled something foul.
“Malfoy, are you quite alright?”
He blinked and cleared his throat, looking away. “Yes, fine. Are you…” he trailed off, looking back at her warily. “Are you feeling alright?”
She flexed her wrists and ankles experimentally, but found nothing out of order. “Nothing sprained or broken, actually. We got lucky.” Hermione hopped to her feet and dusted off the errant twigs and leaves she had collected in her hair during the fall. She was sure her hair had already been unsalvageable, but now… she didn’t want to think about it.
Malfoy seemed to mutter something about being quite unlucky, but she ignored him and grabbed her pack.
“Let me carry that.” Malfoy’s hands wrapped around the strap, tugging it out of her hands. “I should have been carrying it this whole time.” He lifted it easily and slung it onto his back. “Let’s go. We have to get back on the trail and start the ascent before it gets dark.”
“Fine,” she clipped, gesturing to him to take the lead.
“No. You in front. I don’t want you falling again where I can’t see you.”
“How chivalrous.” Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Hardly. If you fall again, we’ll just waste more time.”
“You’re kind of an arsehole, you know that?”
God, what kind of hellish mosquito had done this to her? She scratched at her wrists, frowning at him. His eyes caught the movement and widened slightly, before he exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away.
“Just walk, Granger.”
“Fine.”
Hermione turned and started marching up the slope, kicking just a small flounce into her step. Thank goodness she had at least worn her comfortable leggings and hiking boots—the walk back to the trail would be challenging. Turning back to check he was behind her, she stifled a small laugh.
“How will you see me fall if you’re staring at the ground?”
Malfoy had his head ducked down, pointedly not looking in her direction. His mouth was set in a straight line, jaw tensing with something that seemed to suggest extreme annoyance.
“Walk,” he growled through gritted teeth.
She huffed and turned back, thighs and cheeks burning as she made her way up the steep incline. His presence behind her—steady, strong, there—made every nerve ending prickle in an odd way. Hermione could almost feel his weight, how his body had pressed into hers after their fall. The Twinge returned with a vengeance, and this time, it was almost like a second presence within her body.
He’ll make sure you’re safe, he’ll look out for you. Alpha always does.
Hermione stumbled.
“Granger—”
“I’m fine!” she replied shrilly, scrambling a few extra paces to put more distance between them.
Alpha.
This was… going to be a problem.
***
As the sun crept toward the jagged line of the mountains that surrounded them, the air began to cool to a tolerable temperature, and a breeze swept in from the north. Neither of these things seemed to matter, however, because Hermione was still drenched in sweat. They had started the ascent up Scafell Pike, making it nearly halfway before stopping to make camp. The climb had not been easy.
Everything ached. The itching was only getting worse. In fact, Hermione had somehow acquired two additional mosquito bites on her neck, both of which were rapidly swelling and amplifying the discomfort that seemed to crawl over her skin. She was an itchy, sticky, sore mess.
Only, they weren’t mosquito bites.
She knew that now, even if she desperately wished they were. Four itchy, swollen lumps, placed coincidentally over her glands could not, in fact, be a coincidence. It was pointless to delude herself any longer, especially given the one little word, whisper-soft like a dirty secret, that seemed to echo in her mind.
Alpha.
The effects of the Contamination were no mystery. She knew what was happening, though she couldn’t quite believe it. All this time, she had thought she was B-Class—neutral and blessedly unaffected, for all intents and purposes. She was B-Class.
Until, apparently, she wasn’t.
And then there was the additional inconvenience of The Twinge, which had only become more pronounced as time went on. So pronounced, that perhaps ‘Twinge’ was the wrong word for it. It had graduated to more of a… Tug. And try as she might, Hermione couldn’t ignore the fact that The Tug seemed to be tied to Malfoy. She had begun to make a mental list of all the things about him that seemed to trigger it.
His voice, of course. The sound of a particularly deep inhale or exhale through his nose. Grey eyes catching hers. His brilliant hair glimmering in the sun. How his chest rose and fell with quickened breath as they walked. A few other things. The list was becoming long. But most of all, his scent.
One whiff of fresh cedar, and The Tug would cause her insides to lurch—though not unpleasantly. It was actually… she wasn’t sure how to describe it. There was a certain pleasure to it, mixed with an urge that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was like The Tug was looking for something, pulling her toward an answer to an unknown question.
She was lost somewhere deep in thought as she fished around the hiking backpack, hand finally closing around the small stick of deodorant she had been searching for. Hastily, she pulled it out and applied a quick layer to her armpits. Just because she looked and felt a mess, didn’t mean she had to smell like one.
“What is that?” Draco’s voice was flat and brisk, which The Tug loved, pulling at her insides in response.
“It’s called deodorant,” Hermione replied stiffly. “It’s a Muggle hygiene product that mitigates body odor.”
He snorted derisively. “Well something’s wrong with that one, because it reeks.”
“How can you even smell it from all the way over there?” She regarded him where he sat, leaned against a rock at least three metres away.
Malfoy simply shrugged. How annoying.
“I can’t see why you’re offended, it’s—“ she checked the tube. “Vanilla and citrus.”
“It’s ghastly. You smell much better without it.”
Hermione suddenly felt very hot as The Tug returned with glee. Because if she had heard him correctly, it almost sounded as if he liked the way she smelled? Glancing back at him, she was surprised to see a hint of blush dusting Malfoy’s cheeks as he looked away, studying the gravel at his feet with a determined glare.
“Oh,” she managed to squeak. Thrown by his apparent embarrassment, she scratched absently at her neck.
“Don’t,” Malfoy said, gaze snapping up to meet hers. “You’ll make it worse.”
She groaned in frustration, noticing how his spine seemed to stiffen at the sound. “I can’t help it. It’s so itchy, I’m going mad.”
“The more you scratch, the more you—” Malfoy clamped his mouth shut, nostrils flaring with barely contained irritation. Shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Okay. I think we need to talk about—”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Hermione snapped. There was actually quite a lot to talk about, she just didn’t want to talk about it with him. “I’m just feeling a bit peaky.”
“Peaky?” His brow arched into a perfect curve of disbelief.
“Yes. I just need to sleep, and then we’ll summit tomorrow—” she waved her hand carelessly at the mountain that loomed just behind them, “—and then we’ll portkey to France, and if I’m still feeling off, I’ll just, erm, take care of it there. I suppose.”
“Presenting as Omega isn’t feeling off—”
“O-Class,” she corrected weakly, unable to deny it out loud any longer.
“Omega.” His voice was firm, dipping into a lower register, and oh—there it was again. That cat-around-the-ankles feeling, something smug and satisfied that wanted to hear him say “Omega” one (or a hundred) more times.
Alpha calls to his Omega.
She shivered, stuffing away the thought immediately.
“It’ll be fine.” There was a reediness in her voice that suggested it was not fine—that it was, in fact, far from fine. But she was nothing if not brilliant and resilient, and would find a way to soldier through.
“You need to take a dose of the antidote.”
Her head whipped around, wide-eyed gaze meeting his steady grey. “I’m… sorry?”
“You have two, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Take one.”
“No.”
He frowned. Was he more attractive when he frowned?
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because,” she sputtered, “the antidote is much quicker to replicate with a sample than brewing from scratch, and I need two to create enough—”
“Make do with one—”
“If I take it, we’ll be set back weeks, and the Order doesn’t have that time—”
“You don’t have time!” Malfoy interjected, standing suddenly and striding to loom over her. “You’re presenting as Omega and based on your symptoms…” He trailed off, eyes sliding over her body, lingering on her lips, then her chest, then lower. At this, there was a Tug so forceful, she bit back a whimper. Malfoy started at the noise, clearing his throat. “You probably have less than twelve hours before you go into—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Heat.”
She knew this, logically. She also hated this, logically. More sweat began to prickle along her skin at the thought. If he was right—who was she kidding, he was right.
That was it, then. In twelve hours or less, and she’d be addled out of her fucking mind with pheromones. She’d run even hotter, sweat even more, and be devoured by a blinding, all-consuming, uncontrollable desire to fuck—an Alpha, specifically. Her body and mind would be physically incapable of functioning normally until she was filled with cum. And she’d be panting for it, like some kind of feral, stray bitch.
There was only one Alpha currently available.
Suddenly eager for a distraction, Hermione snatched the deodorant once more, uncapping it and shoving it under her shirt. God, she was sweating so much. Malfoy narrowed his eyes. As she switched to the other side, his hand shot out, catching hers. Before she could say “vanilla and citrus”, he had plucked the offending product out of her hand and turned to hurl it into the distance. Her jaw dropped in disbelief as she watched it sail over the horizon.
“Malfoy!”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” he snapped.
“I am. You are the one acting psychotic—”
“Your pheromones are about to make us both psychotic—”
“I’m not taking the antidote!” Hermione interrupted shrilly. “It’s out of the question.”
“Granger,” he spoke slowly, tone purposefully measured as if he was attempting to dole out the right amount of infuriating calm. “Your body is going to be compromised. You won’t be able to climb the mountain, much less portkey, if you don’t do this.”
“There has to be another way.”
She realized it as soon as she said it, stomach rolling in mortification. Of course there was one other way to alleviate her symptoms. Only that way involved Malfoy—Malfoy with his body pressed against hers, his hands on her skin, his mouth on her neck (would he put his mouth on her neck?). His cum in her cunt.
All of him and all of her.
The Tug tugged enthusiastically.
She closed her eyes, biting her lip and hoping the sharp pinch would distract her enough to stop picturing Malfoy… like that. It did not.
His voice sliced through her thoughts. “There is no other way.”
Hermione’s eyes flew open, darting up to read his expression, only to find that he’d turned to stalk away, the distance between them growing blessedly, cursedly wider with every step. There was a determined set to his shoulders, one that suggested he had meant what he said.
Of course he didn’t want that with her. It made perfect sense, really. What was she to him, but a representation of everything he was raised to loathe? No one wanted to fuck that.
It was fine, because she shouldn’t want him either. Except…
Except, there was a growing desire, gnawing and thrashing, that pulled her to him.
Except, she wanted to touch his face, and his arm, and—everything, really.
Except, she wanted to hear his voice, a low, teasing murmur in her ear.
Except, she really, really did want him.
***
She awoke to the sound of rain drumming steadily against the tent, and a certain humidity that lingered in the air like a half-forgotten thought. Or perhaps that oppressive, suffocating warmth wasn’t just moisture in the air, but her—still sweating and itching and gasping for breath. Drawing a hand down over her face, Hermione wriggled the sleeping bag down past her hips, desperate for a hint of cool air to lick over her skin. Something pushed, insistent, in the back of her mind.
It was raining outside. Rain, in rivulets, down the nylon of her tent. Water pooling beneath. What was it that felt wrong? Perhaps—
Oh. Malfoy.
Hermione shot up, fumbling with aching limbs to quickly unzip the tent.
“Malfoy,” she called out into the darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she saw him right where she had left him for the night, leaned up against a large rock. Water-repelling and warming charms had clearly been cast, so at least he wasn’t soaked to the bone, but he wouldn’t be able to maintain them asleep. Which was probably why he was still awake now, grey eyes staring blearily at her from underneath hooded lids.
“Go back to bed.”
“You can’t stay out here.”
He snorted. “Watch me.”
“Just come inside,” she huffed. “I won’t bite.”
Malfoy’s eyes widened, and she caught just the slightest shift of movement—a fist clenching, white knuckles. “No.”
“You’re being an idiot.” She scrambled out of the tent, stalking over to where he sat. Rain wet her curls, running over her collar and soaking into her oversized t-shirt. “Come inside.”
“Take the antidote.”
“I already told you, it’s not possible—”
“Then no.” His mouth set in a hard line, one that she couldn’t stop staring at. His mouth, his mouth, his mouth.
Hermione shook her head, trying to clear thoughts of his lips from her mind. “How do you expect to climb the rest of this bloody mountain tomorrow if you don’t sleep?”
He scowled. “I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t. We can’t both be useless, or we’ll never make it.”
“Granger—”
“Come on, you stubborn sod!”
She reached down, taking his wrists in her hands, and pulled. She expected resistance, refusal—anything, really. She was surprised to find there was none.
Malfoy stood suddenly, imposingly, and—how had his fingers wrapped themselves around her forearms? Goosebumps erupted down her limbs in a cascade of breathless pinpricks. The Tug jerked violently inside, straining, looking for something that seemed a bit more tangible when he was close like this.
They stood for a moment, the world narrowed to soft pants drifting from their mouths. Rain on her brow. A wild, frayed look in his eyes.
“You’re wet,” he finally croaked.
He was right. She was soaked: hair, lashes, shirt. Knickers.
A touch—the warm caress of his magic—started at her wrist and traveled up and over her skin, drying her as it went. Hermione bit her lips to stifle a moan. His magic on her body was—was—maybe there wasn’t a word for it.
“Get in the tent, Malfoy,” she whispered.
His hands tightened on her arms for the briefest of seconds, the squeeze extending to her lungs as a breath left her in a sharp exhale. Bringing her eyes upward, she found him staring down at her. Suddenly, she was in fifth year again, her eyes meeting his as they somehow always did, catching something inexplicable flickering through them before it was gone. From her current vantage point, she could finally identify some of it.
Hunger, uncertainty, yearning, fear.
When he dropped his hands and went to the tent, she followed. They settled into opposite ends, a heavy, thick silence filling the ten or so centimetres between them. Hermione stared up at the ceiling, inhaling shallow breaths that were perfumed with his clean scent. God, it went straight to a corner of her brain she didn’t know she had, lighting it up with a heady, buzzing thrum that made her toes curl.
Alpha is close. Alpha will take good care of Omega.
A strangled sound escaped her throat.
“Granger, what—”
Malfoy’s hand darted out, wavering like an unmade decision.
“it’s fine,” she said roughly, turning to face away from him. The movement brushed her bare arm against Malfoy’s fingers. A shiver ran through her at the touch, but she stayed resolutely where she was, eyes squeezed shut and spine straight. After a minute, he slowly withdrew back to his side.
She fell asleep to the sound of his breath, the smell of winter cedar in the air, and the feel of a persistent, aching, pleading Tug behind her heart.